


the pattern wont wash out

by stainedglassbirds



Series: the stars have left but we're still here [3]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: "trauma" actually edging into ptsd here but, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Dewey Duck Has ADHD, Dissociation, Gen, Guilt, Night Terrors, Nonbinary Dewey Duck, Phantom pain, Trauma, ao3 keeps putting my tags out of order. why, dewey be like: dissociates the entire time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25393777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stainedglassbirds/pseuds/stainedglassbirds
Summary: They suddenly wish they were a robot, just so they could be taken apart piece by piece and let every crevice be washed away of the sickening feeling clinging to their skin.
Relationships: Dewey Duck & Huey Duck, Dewey Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck & Webby Vanderquack, Dewey Duck & Louie Duck, Dewey Duck & Webby Vanderquack
Series: the stars have left but we're still here [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833901
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	the pattern wont wash out

Dewey wakes up covered in sweat.  
  
They shoot out from the covers, immediately regretting how the world sways and their head buzzes with the tail end of a dream they can’t remember.  
  
“Dewey—”  
  
A startled scream almost rips itself out of Dewey’s throat but instead lodges itself in, only letting out a choked, pained noise and they reflexively curl in on themself. The arm that isn’t there feels like it’s being stabbed with a million tiny knives and then dipped in fire, a torturous dance of heat and _pain_.   
  
Something grabs their arm, the touch so light it’s almost nonexistent yet it feels like they’ve been set on fire. Before they can pull back the touch is removed like it just realized what it caused.  
  
“ _Dewey_ ,” The voice cuts in like glass. Dewey flinches, scrambling back, _leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone_ —  
  
 _High-pitched, nasally, soft, warm friendly friendly_ — _Webby_. Their mind grips onto the realization with force, holding it tight.  
  
It’s just Webby.  
  
It’s okay. It’s okay. ...It should be okay.  
  
Dewey takes a moment just to greedily gulp air, trying to fill the constricting void in their chest. Their heart hammers so loud it’s uncomfortable, pulse beating underneath their skin like it’s trying to break through.  
  
 _Like it’s scraping through the door._ _  
_ _  
_They suddenly wish they were a robot, just so they could be taken apart piece by piece and let every crevice be washed away of the sickening feeling clinging to their skin.  
  
Shuffling and then the sound of whispering reaches through the stuffing in their ears. They can’t make out the words. Instead of trying, or even really caring to, they simply curl further in on themself, letting the noise fade into the buzz of their mind.  
  
Eventually a presence moves in front of them.  
  
“It’s Huey,” he whispers, “Are you okay with being touched right now?”  
  
Dewey slowly peeks out from their makeshift ball. It takes their eyes a moment to adjust to the milky darkness, a grey haze of light just barely shining through the room. They know it won't get much brighter with the boards over the window and covering of curtains.  
  
Huey hovers hesitantly in front of them, his hands reached out but not close enough to touch, waiting for an answer. 

Their throat is scratchy and raw like they've been screaming. Dried tear tracks line their cheeks. It was all almost unnoticeable, but suddenly it hits them, the fact their siblings are awake in the first place, the reason why their hands feel clammy and cold, why it feels like they're missing a piece of their memory, torn with threads left sticking out. 

It feels like they haven't been able to get a good night of sleep since... well. It makes sense. It doesn't make it any less frustrating, some vague sense of shame deep in their bones, but in the end they're too tired to properly feel bad. 

Huey's still here. Dewey doesn't have a response to give. So instead, they move a little closer until they're in reach, and let themself fall into Huey's embrace. 

“Everything’s okay, you’re safe, we’re here,” Huey murmurs.  
  
A pressure falls onto Dewey’s side, heavy and comforting. They register it as Louie when another pair of arms wraps around them, bringing them into a huddle of warmth and achingly familiar _safety_ .  
  
There's a lack of another.  
  
Dewey doesn’t get a chance to do anything about it when a jolt of pain ricochets up their shoulder. They hiss, doubling over and grasping at their sleeve.  
  
Their nerves _scream_ at a piece of them that isn’t there anymore, burning and hissing like it's sole purpose is to rip up another limb then tear it apart again just for the fun of it. Dewey grits their teeth, tears prickling in their eyes as more pain stabs ruthlessly at them, barely stopping a shout from escaping because _they can't yell, they can't yell, their screams in the night are already putting everyone in enough danger._

"Your arm?" Louie asks quietly, not even attempting to mask his worry. Dewey nods shakily. “Okay. Okay… do you remember that time in school, during show and tell...”  
  
It’s routine at this point. Louie doesn’t do it every time, when sounds and lights are too bright, but the background noise of him talking about different stories in their lives Dewey’s forgotten is nice.  
  
It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it adds a level of comfort they need.  
  
When Huey gestures Webby to come over, and the missing fourth is finally added, Dewey slips back into sleep.  
  


* * *

  
“—ust worried about leaving.”  
  
“I am too, but we need more supplies.”

“You don’t _need_ to come.”  
  
“I’m not leaving you alone, Webby. You need someone right now too.”  
  
A weight around them shifts. “Guys, shhh.” The voices immediately quiet. Darkness replaces them, shrouding in a haze and pulling everything down.  
  


* * *

  
Dewey wakes up. 

It's natural. It's calm. It's how they normally woke up before this whole mess happened. And maybe there's brief disorientation, panic edging in the recesses of their mind before they blink and realize where they're at. 

Warm light filters through the room, dust flitting around. They can only guess the time is _morning_. Minutes and hours always fly too quick for them, faster than most people, blurring into a mess of moments and thoughts, or go so agonizingly slow they feel the world spinning. Telling the time is not their forte. 

Louie's laying down, pressed against Dewey. He's moving his finger across his phone, probably playing one of those dumb mobile games he likes. Dewey blinks. It's still a little jarring how Louie always seems to be awake before Dewey now. He used to always sleep in as much as he could until Huey and Dewey dragged him out of bed. But, it's slowly just another thing becoming the norm.

Louie doesn't look away from his phone, but it feels like he's watching Dewey anyways. "Good morning." 

They angle their head so they can see what Louie's playing. Yep, one of those dumb mobile games. Rollercoaster Tycoon. It looks like his scheme this time is throwing everyone into an inescapable pit with the coaster, probably with a pricey attraction inside. "G'morning," Dewey mumbles into the blankets. 

"Huey and Webs are out getting more stuff. They left, like, half an hour ago, so they'll be back soon," Louie explains. Dewey appreciates that he did it without them needing to prompt it.

"Mmm," Is Dewey's response. They idly watch Louie, more out of lack for anything to do than a genuine interest. Being invested in anything feels too exhausting. They didn't realize how much energy it took until it was gone.

Louie waits another minute before speaking. "I think we're gonna need to leave soon."   
  
It's dropped in a casual way. The air it leaves, though, tells of the hesitation in it, the anxiety, the nervous edge. It pricks up Dewey's back, leaving goosebumps. They let what Louie said sink in. 

"Oh. Alright." 

Louie tenses. "Alright?"

"Mhm." 

He glances to Dewey, just for a second, brows furrowed. Slowly his shoulders relax. "It won't be far. Like, a block down or a bit more. Webby has the attitude that any amount of progress getting to Lena's place is good. Honestly, I'm wondering if they'll even still be there but I guess they could leave some kind of note. Lena's sappy enough for a romantic message left for Webby to find her whereabouts." 

Louie tends to ramble when he's nervous. It depends on the situation. In other times, he'll be completely nonverbal. Dewey thinks it’s based on the severity of whatever’s happening.  
  
Eventually, Louie groans, flopping his arms down and letting his phone rest against his chest. "I'm not looking forward to walking around for ages again. We need to get bikes or something, this is more exercise than I'd usually allow."   
  
Dewey frowns. “You don’t allow any exercise.”  
  
“That’s my _point_.”  
  
Bikes would be good. Dewey remembers cycling on them a lot, all throughout their childhood and even once they moved to the manor. There was always something so simple and fun about it.  
  
They’d definitely be better than a car.  
  
The thought feels wrong, like they should be feeling… _something_ about it. There’s vivid memories of them rambling passionately about the topic, how in zombie movies it’s always such a stupid option. They’re loud, big, need to be refilled with gas and generally inconvenient.  
  
None of that passion seems to show up no matter how hard Dewey digs. It’s simmered down to more a plain, basic fact with no actual opinion behind it.  
  
They fiddle with the hem of their shirt. “Could I still ride a bike? The balance would be weird.”  
  
Louie goes quiet. Dewey winces.  
  
Sometimes it feels like their siblings are more bothered by the loss of their arm than they are. They suppose they’re not the one who remembers it. Though, that’s not giving their nightmares enough credit.  
  
An apology sits on the tip of Dewey’s tongue— _and why are you sorry? Sorry everyone had to see it? Sorry they’re outsiders? Sorry you hurt them?_ — but before they can speak, Louie does.  
  
“We used to have to carry those big bags when we rode to school on our bikes, and the weight was really weird at first because it was all pulling to one side.” Louie has a distant, soft gaze. It’s almost fond, a bittersweet tinge for the life they no longer have. “But we got used to it. And I know that’s different from… an arm, but I think you can do it. It’s really just about the legs, anyways.”  
  
A weird sense of clarity hits Dewey. Some of the thick fog is cleared, and the edges of every object and every corner feel a little sharper, less like a grainy image of a plastic, fake world.  
  
They tentatively smile. They’re not sure of the last time they did that.  
  
“Thanks, Louie.” There’s a million things those two words mean and a million ways Dewey could try to express them, but in the end, they think that’s enough. Louie always understands what they mean in the end.  
  
Louie looks a bit surprised, eyes wide as he stares at Dewey. It melts into a soft smile. “Anytime.”  
  
They lay there in calming silence until Webby and Huey come back.  
  
There's a soft knock at the door. Louie's shoulders twinge like he wants to shoot up. Dewey flinches. _It's just Webby and Huey, zombies wouldn't knock, robbers wouldn't knock._

The door cracks open, Huey peeking in. "We're back— oh! Good morning, Dewey." He smiles, walking in, Webby trailing behind. They've both got their bags, every pocket filled with whatever they could get their hands on and judging by the fact they don't seem despondent Dewey assumes it was a good run. Webby's biting her nails as she walks in. Maybe it wasn't a good run, on second thought. Or maybe she's just overthinking.

She catches Dewey's eye, freezing momentarily. Dewey waves at her. She waves back, uncertain. Dewey's a little tired of Webby acting like this around them. Maybe it's rude of them. It probably is, but they just want things to go back to normal and for her to stop looking at them like she ruined their entire life.

She didn't. They wish she knew that. 

"How'd it go?" Louie asks. 

Huey sits down, setting his bag on the floor beside him. "Pretty good. Louie, did you...?" Louie nods. "So, Webby and I talked about it, we're thinking we should leave tomorrow morning. We're not in red territory, but the zombies are getting pretty restless and there's noticeably more, now. We'll take a quick midpoint stop, but we're pretty close to getting to Lena and her family's place." 

Webby sits down next to Huey, placing down her own bag. "If you're okay with that." She fidgets with her hands. 

Dewey knows she's not really talking to them both. Dewey knows the hesitation is just about them, and their still-healing arm, the scarred flesh wrapped in bandages. The bandages don't need to be changed as frequently anymore, but it's still prone to injury. 

They give a lazy thumbs up. "I'm cool with that."   
  
Webby visibly relaxes, letting out a puff of air. “Alright, that’s the plan then.”  
  
“Did you guys eat?” Huey eyes Louie and them suspiciously.  
  
“Uhhh,” Is Louie’s eloquent response.  
  
Huey sighs, rolling his head back. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute…”

“In my defense, I didn’t wanna leave Dewey alone.”  
  
“In my defense, I was asleep,” Dewey mutters. There’s not the same heat behind it like their usual banter does, but it’s something. They’re not sure if it’s ever going to be the same again.  
  
They don’t really think it will. 

**Author's Note:**

> please dont request me to write anything. im having an issue where people are suddenly doing it and i really dont want the requests


End file.
